


But It Don't Snow Here

by addyke



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addyke/pseuds/addyke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The snow isn't going to fall this year and Christmas brings little comfort or joy to those missing absent friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But It Don't Snow Here

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Sherlock Holmes was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and BBC-sponsored fanboys Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss created 'Sherlock'. I am making no money whatsoever from this.

The lights of Oxford Street glistened against the steadily darkening sky, trying to force a festive spirit on the dreary afternoon.

The gale force winds and driving rain ensured that this Christmas Eve was anything but festive. Bookmakers across the country were the only ones content with this, reassured that they were safe from paying out for a ’White Christmas’.

No chance of snow this year.

John Watson picked his way through the crowds and the puddles, head bowed. Large raindrops landed on the back of his neck, and his jeans and flimsy jacket were soaked through within two minutes of leaving the Underground. He didn’t care though. He had a task to complete and he was determined to get it over and done with as soon as possible.

Get in, get it done, get out. Just like in the Army. John was, once again, a soldier without a battlefield.

And no one understood.

The only reason he was even braving London’s main shopping street on Christmas Eve was Harry, who had demanded that he was going to her house for Christmas dinner whether he liked it or not. He couldn’t be alone for Christmas, according to her, not with all that had happened this year.

He was praying that she wasn’t going to make him talk about it. Everyone did that and he was sick of it.

He briefly considered employing the desperate tactic of arriving with a large bottle of Bailey’s so she would get drunk and leave him be rather than endure the incessant questioning he knew he was going to get.

It wouldn’t work. She was back on the wagon again, good for her, and this time it looked like it was going to stick.

The fact that his sister was trying to stay sober meant that he couldn't get pissed in front of Eastenders either, which was an option he would have quite liked to have had.

Not showing up was also an option he would have liked but she had threatened to turn up at his place if he didn’t and he really didn’t want that.

He was nearly knocked over by a flustered young man rushing into Boots. New relationship, forgot to get her a Christmas present, heading toward the perfume counter. He could almost hear Sherlock’s voice in his thoughts.

Sherlock.

He was buried over six months ago yet there was barely a moment that John didn’t feel the emptiness that his death had left by his side. To many, he seemed to be doing alright; he was working full-time now, rather the odd locum shift he used to do. Those who knew him better knew that he was far from alright, because he never spoke of his friend, or their cases, or even the odd tale from Baker Street. His blog, once his pride and joy, had become a ghost site.

John ducked into a department store, the over-bright lights, garish decorations and Slade blaring making him instantly wince. He headed straight for the entertainment section, picking up a box-set for his sister. He didn't know if she already had it. He didn't actually care - he was going to keep the receipt, let her exchange it for something she actually wanted. He just needed something to physically give her on Christmas Day. Now a generic present for her new girlfriend, Laura or Lauren, whatever her name was - smellies would do. It was his absolute mission to get to the tills as quickly as possible.

As he cut through the menswear department on his way to the customer service counter, he noticed a display of beautiful burgundy dressing gowns.

And for one moment, he thought 'That would be a lovely present for Sherlock.'

Just for one fleeting moment, he forgot. And when he realised, the grief hit him again.

He had taken Mrs Hudson to visit the cemetery that morning. She had placed a wreath of holly and ivy on Sherlock's grave, and reminisced about their little party last Christmas Eve, between dabbing her eyes with her tissue. She gave him a few moments alone, her new habit on these visits. John just stood in silence, watching the raindrops race down the black marble of the headstone.

John stood frozen in the middle of the department store, clutching the sleeve of the dressing gown between his fingers. In the background, Shane McGowan sang almost unintelligibly.

_Can't make it out alone,  
I built my dreams around you..._

Happy Christmas, Sherlock, he thought, swallowing a lump in his throat.

*****

The sun doesn't set in this part of Africa - night falls as if someone turned out the light.

Night did bring a blessing though. The drop in temperature offered some relief from the stifling humidity that had built up during the day. 

Since landing in Entebbe, that sweeping descent over Lake Victoria that made him feel as if he was about to land on the water itself, Sherlock had felt he was drowning in the moist air.

He had parked the battered old Mercedes about a hundred yards from the road. It was a completely unremarkable car that had quickly disappeared in the darkness, and for the past two weeks, it was the closest thing that Sherlock could call home. His back ached from having to curl up in such an unnatural position in a futile effort to get a few hours sleep. Not that he would have dared to sleep for long. This road was dangerous enough before you even considered the task in hand.

For a single second of self-indulgence, Sherlock imagined being stretched out on the sofa in Baker Street, listening to the sound of John’s heavy handed typing and the sound of London’s traffic below.

He missed London.

He missed John.

A single second in that thought - he could not afford to wallow any longer.

He could see the headlights of several trunks on the road he had turned off from. It was too dark to made out whether they bore the reassuring colours of the UN or the Red Cross, or whether they were engaged in less noble activities.

It was the main road from Kampala, heading west towards the borders with Rwanda and the DRC. Refugees and militias, aid workers and opportunists, NGOs and international mining conglomerates, peacekeepers and arms dealers - all these extremes and more could be found on this pot-holed track.

Sherlock was just another anonymous face in the crowd of outsiders that had come to help or hinder in this troubled region.

Sherlock normally had absolutely no interest in politics, but it was crucial in this part of the world, when ancient tribal rivalries and colonial scars met humanity’s greed, prejudice and lust for power.

A place where the likes of Moriarty and his associates could make their fortunes amongst the chaos.

He felt another stab of hatred for Moriarty and the position he had forced him into. Again he had to let go of that feeling quickly. Wasting time on feelings like anger and regret were luxuries he could not have. Only pure logic would do.

He looked at his watch. It was time.

He unwrapped the prepaid SIM card he had brought at a brightly painted roadside shop the week before and inserted it into the mobile phone he had been provided with. The signal bars sprung to life.

Sherlock was always amused by the fact that in a place where poverty was a permanent guest at the dinner table, he was always able to get reasonable signal.

The secure number took several minutes to connect and then there it was - the only familiar voice Sherlock had heard in months.

Mycroft answered with his usual relief and hint of disbelief. He still was getting used to the idea that the brother he had buried had by some miracle survived. He was acutely aware that his survival could be short lived.

Sherlock’s report was sterile and brief and Mycroft ensured that his responses were equally succinct. Despite their many precautions, these phone calls were dangerous, especially for Sherlock.

Just before Sherlock disconnected the call, Mycroft felt compiled to pass on one message of sentiment.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Excuse me?"

"It's Christmas Eve."

Sherlock had completely lost track of the date, and to be suddenly reminded of it by his brother had taken him by surprise.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft." He said before pressing the end call button.

His fingers fumbled slightly as he pulled the SIM card out.

The memories of last year came flooding back. A relaxed Lestrade leaning on the doorframe, nursing a much-needed drink. Mrs Hudson sitting in his chair like it was a throne, having already consumed too much sherry. John playing the consummate host, wearing that ridiculous jumper. The cut of the violin strings as he played for a rare audience. And two very different presents, wrapped in the exact shade of their respective givers’ lipstick.

Not for the first time, Sherlock felt overwhelmed by his tremulous sense of loss.

What he wouldn’t give to talk to John right now.

He used the scissors on his Swiss Army knife to shred the SIM card to pieces. 

A slight breeze picked up the tiny pieces of plastic and carried them away. 

"Happy Christmas, John." He whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from 'Fairytale of New York' by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl.


End file.
